


This is Different

by Living_In_a_Fantasy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Romance, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_In_a_Fantasy/pseuds/Living_In_a_Fantasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not a virgin, or attracted to women, but when Irene touches him, something feels different. He isn’t sure why that is. He begins to experiment to figure it out, but then John touches him. It is different in so many ways, and he learns that touch has nothing to do with gender. The thing that makes a touch special is the feeling behind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Different

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dlvvanzor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dlvvanzor/gifts).



Sex doesn’t alarm Sherlock. It irritates him when Mycroft makes that little, childish remark. He knows what a dominatrix is. He understands sex and kinks and adultery. It is a big motivator in crime so of course he had to study it, learn it, understand how it works and why it motivates people.

Sherlock is not a virgin. He hasn’t had many partners in his life, certainly less than the average man his age, but he has had sex. His first time had been fast and hurried and a bit overwhelming with a man by the name of Victor Trevor while at university. That was the closest to a real relationship Sherlock has ever come to. His time with Victor was a blur of sex and drugs that had ended rather abruptly when Victor left university. Sherlock had not been that sad to see him go.

He has never slept with a woman. He just has never found them as appealing as men, and in the end they hadn’t seemed worth the trouble.

So it surprises him when Irene Adler touches him and he feels something.

He isn’t entirely sure what it is. Plenty of women have hit on him before. They talk him up and try to slyly pass over their numbers or ask for his, blatantly flashing their cleavage in his general direction, as if a bit of exposed skin is going to shut his brain off. As if something as simple as a breathy, high voice and a short skirt will make him take her to his bed. It certainly wasn’t that easy.

But Irene is… _different_. Her confidence is a welcome change and she’s clever, bold in a way that says he is lucky to have her rather than the other way around. Her touch is deliberate and electric and Sherlock doesn’t know _why_. He doesn’t sit home at night thinking of her taking him to bed (since clearly she was the one with the experience and made sure he knew it) but he couldn’t get that simple touch, of her hand on his skin, out of his mind. Why did it feel different from his previous partners? Why did one touch from this woman evoke these odd feelings?

“Sherlock, I have to work late tonight. Would you pick up bread and milk from Tesco later?”

Sherlock glances at John. Shirt slightly askew, slight slamming of the fridge door, hands fumbling with his wallet. Late, then. Obvious. No time for tea. John will not be in a pleasant mood. “If I have the time. I have a rather pressing experiment to attend to today.”

John practically growls his response. “You used the last of the bread last night, and God knows where the milk has gone to, since I just bought some two days ago.”

Ah, John is in a particularly bad mood. Seems like one of those times to appease him. “I will see if time permits me to do your shopping.” It’s as close to a yes as he ever gets.

John mumbles to himself as he moves to the living area, grabbing his coat and hurriedly pulling it on. Sherlock’s eyes follow him. As far as he is aware, John has slept with only women before, outside some experimenting at university. Could John know what this strange touching was? Did it have something to do with gender? Irene is the first woman to touch Sherlock in such a manner, but he has been touched by men. It had not felt like that. Could John share his experience?

“I can pick up takeaway on the way home. Chinese, because it is easiest. And you didn’t eat yesterday so you’re having some,” John says, voice giving no room for arguments.

No, pointless to ask. John may be biased, and Sherlock cannot trust the results of simply asking.

“Do you listen when I talk to you?” John asks, halfway out the door.

Sherlock hums and John makes some sort of noise in exasperation before leaving. Sherlock sits there for a while longer before standing. He has an experiment to do.

 

 

John will not be home until late, and though the experiment would most likely be easier to conduct later at night, Sherlock knows it should not be too difficult to be hit on at a pub at this hour. By the time he ends up at one, it is late evening. He calculates that he has just under two hours to conduct this experiment if he wants time to stop at Tesco before John gets home. With that thought in mind, his eyes slide around the room, eventually settling on his first target. There is a man sitting at the bar. Married, evident from the way he fiddles with his ring finger, though it is empty. He is eyeing a man across the bar, but not confident. Checking phone periodically. Looking for an affair then. Easy target.

Sherlock swoops in with all the charm and grace he can muster (which is a lot). He orders a drink, leaning an arm on the bar, tilting his head to give the man a good view of his neck. He’s chosen his attire well; it clings to his body without being obscenely tight. When he orders he pitches his voice low and dark. He can feel the man’s eyes on him and his lips quirk up in a small smirk. Easy.

He takes his drink, sipping it nonchalantly as he glances around the pub. The man is looking at him without trying to be obvious. It is. “Warm for this time of year,” he says conversationally, turning to gaze at the man. Weather. Dull. Pedestrian. But that fits this man so clearly.

“Quite,” he says after a moment, looking momentarily startled but overcoming that quickly. He stops fiddling with his drink and turns to face Sherlock.

Sherlock sips from his drink, eyes flickering down the man then back up to his eyes, conveying his interest. The man already looks eager. Sherlock knows how to be approachable. He knows how to use his body to show his interests. Knows the right way to look, the correct angle to lean, the perfect way to press his lips against the rim of his drink to convey that he is interested in going home with someone. And this man is so obviously interested in something casual and quick to get it out of his system before his wife gets home that he barely has to try.

It only takes a few more minutes of conversation for Sherlock to know he’s been successful. Sherlock glances down at his phone, as if to check the time. “I really should be going, though. Talking to you was…most satisfying.” He flashed him a smile, reaching in his pocket for the pad of paper and pen he’d brought for this occasion. “Maybe I can get your number and we can,” he paused, “meet sometime.”

The man reaches out, hand settling on Sherlock’s wrist. The touch isn’t restraining, but the signal is clear. “Are you sure you have to go? Maybe we can go out now. Get to know each other better.” His fingers brush across Sherlock’s wrist in a clearly sexual gesture. But there is no spark. He can sense the lust and wanting in the touch, but it doesn’t make him feel. He pulls away.

“Quite sure,” he says primly, tucking his paper and pen away. “Well this was been illuminating, but I really must go now. Say hello to the wife for me.” He stands and swoops from the pub without another word.

His next target is in another pub, female this time. He saunters up, orders a drink, and turns towards the woman. She’s short, with long, light hair and sipping at her drink. Single. Based on the eyes she’s making at him, interested more in a man than the alcohol.

She greets him first. Forward. Not drunk but has been drinking so eager to talk. “You’re rather well dressed for a night at the pub,” she says, looking him up and down.

He smiles. “Just got off work. And you look stunning. Clearly you’re ready for a night out at the pub.” He makes sure to let his eyes linger before looking back up at her face.

She giggles. The conversation continues smoothly, though longer than the one with the man. Eventually she starts to turn up her charm, leaning into him when she laughs, catching his arm and letting her hands linger on his skin. Her touch is flirty, meant to convey her interest. But again, there is no spark. It doesn’t feel the way Irene’s touch had felt. He quickly explains that he was to go and leaves the woman without a second thought.

What does he make of this? He had thought it had something to do with gender. He can’t deny that the idea sends a small jolt of nerves through him. He has been secure with his sexuality from a young age. The idea that he has been wrong is baffling and concerning. He’d enjoyed sex with men, but their touches didn’t feel like Irene’s. Why didn’t it feel like Irene’s? What made her special? Why could he not get it out of his head?

Was she special? Was this woman someone he was destined to pine for? It simply didn’t make any sense. He has never had a desire to sleep with a woman, outside of an experiment. Any sexual attraction has been geared towards men. Why this change now? He didn’t stop thinking on the subject, stopping to pick up John’s items without really thinking about it.

He doesn’t stop thinking all the way home.

He barely notices when John gets back. He didn’t understand. What made her so different? He ddoesn’t look up at the noise of surprise from John as he enters the kitchen. “Sherlock, you actually picked up this stuff for me?” He simply didn’t find women that attractive. How could that touch mean something? “Thank you.”

What did cause him to look up was John’s hand. It was on his shoulder, weight heavy, demanding attention but not being forceful about it. His hand is warm. Sherlock can feel it through his shirt. John is smiling at him, and his fingers tug at Sherlock’s shoulder gently. “Come on, I brought dinner. Told you I’d get you to eat, remember.”

Sherlock follows him, eyes locked on John’s back. John pays him no mind, pulling out the food, fingers brushing Sherlock’s as he hands him part of his order. Sherlock stares. The touch is over as soon as it began but he finds himself wishing it would have continued.

This is…different.

 

 

Sherlock starts to take notice of every time John touches him. It happens more often than he had thought. He isn’t sure if this is a new thing or not. All he knows is when John touches him, even though the touches always feel casual, it sparks something. Something similar to Irene, but not quite the same. He feels it when John hands him something and their fingers touch. He feels it several weeks later, during a long case. He stumbles, his transport yelling at him to pay it some attention, and John steadies him. His hands linger, supporting him, as John watches with concern. He feels it then. So much, then.

He feels it when John forces him down on the sofa later that night, forceful but careful, telling him to sit still and relax. He feels it when, nearly a month later, a suspect swipes him with a knife and Sherlock goes down. John’s hands are steady as he holds Sherlock together, squeezing Sherlock’s hand in a comforting gesture as they wait for the ambulance. Sherlock feels lightheaded that time, and he can’t honestly tell if it’s from the wound or John’s touch.

He thinks about it for a long time. This prompts him to think about other things. How he does things John wants sometimes without even thinking about it, like picking up stuff from Tesco when he’s already out. He thinks about every time John is injured and how until he is reassured that John will be fine, he can’t breathe properly. He thinks about how he wishes John’s touches weren’t so brief, weren’t so casual.

Oh.

_Oh._

Obvious. Attraction. Buried under all that stuff, all that sentiment he knows he has about John. Because John is Important. John means something. Evidently, John means a great deal more than Sherlock had previously thought.

He isn’t sure how to proceed. If John doesn’t feel similarly, it will make things awkward. Sherlock decides to test out John’s feelings. He makes an effort to let his own touch linger. He sits closer to John than normal. He listens more, pays closer attention. John notices. Sherlock notices that he notices.

One day, months after his initial experiment at the pub, Sherlock notices John watching him. John has been watching him more lately, but now the gaze has lasted a particularly long time. Sherlock looks away and inwardly chastises himself. Since when did he care if John caught him looking? John makes him feel strangely. Makes him act in ways he normally would not. It is different. It is not how is previous attractions had worked.

“Sherlock?”

He looks up. John is still watching him. “Hm?”

John is studying him. He isn’t used to being studied so intensely. “You’ve been acting different lately.”

John had noticed. Good. Is it good? Seems he’ll find out. Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

When it is clear Sherlock isn’t planning to speak, John continues. “It feels deliberate. Sometimes I can see the way you think about doing something before you actually do it. For simple things, like sitting next to me on the sofa or before asking if I want tea. You never make tea.”

Sherlock is silent for several moments. “You’ve been observing.”

John starts moving closer. “You’ve paid closer attention to me. You postponed leaving for a case just because I had a bad day and refused to leave the flat before sitting down and relaxing for an hour.”

Sherlock had hesitated about that one, wondering if it would make him too obvious. Maybe it has. “Yes.”

John is getting even closer, eyes trained on Sherlock as he moves. “And you’ve been in my space more. Closer. More often.”

This fit John. John, who was bold when approaching a woman he was interested in. Confident. John seems confident now. Is that a good or bad thing? “Does it bother you?”

“Didn’t say it did.”

“Didn’t say it didn’t.”

John chuckles softly as he takes another step forwards. “It doesn’t.” Sherlock isn’t sure what else to say so says nothing. “If I were to do the same, would it bother you?”

Sherlock watches him. “You being in my space?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

John smiles. “Good.”

John’s standing right in front of him now, and by his eyes _he_ is the one who is deducing. Sherlock is glad one of them can do it, because he has no idea what’s going through John’s head. He is stepping closer, then his hand is brushing Sherlock’s. The simple touch is electric. He meets John’s eyes as the other man’s hand trails slowly up his arm, and, oh, he can read this.

But he doesn’t know what to do. What if Sherlock is wrong? Is it worth the risk? If John knew how he felt and didn’t reciprocate, he wouldn’t leave. He’d not stop being Sherlock’s friend. But things will be different. Things will be awkward. John won’t feel comfortable around him. If John doesn’t feel the same way, he won’t touch him casually anymore. He won’t let their fingers brush as he hands Sherlock tea. John won’t pat his shoulder as he walks past him. He won’t sit close enough that their shoulders are brushing because he’ll know that Sherlock isn’t focused on whatever they’re watching or reading; he’s focused on John’s touch. He can’t lose it. He’d rather suffer not knowing than lose what he already has.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is soft, amused. Sherlock focuses back in on those eyes as John’s fingers brush across his jaw and settle across the back of his neck. “Stop thinking and kiss me.”

Sherlock wastes no time after that, ducking his head to press his lips to John’s. The casual touches were electric enough, but feeling John’s lips, teeth, and tongue are enough to daze him. It is so much more than he was anticipating. John’s skin is warm and all he wants is more. And the touch is different. Similar to Irene’s but so much _more_. He hasn’t got time to figure out why. He’s much more interested in simply being with John.

 

 

A week later finds them on the sofa, kissing lazily. It has possibly been the best week of Sherlock’s life, though he does not plan on admitting that out loud. It is between these lazy kisses that he eventually mentions Irene.

“What about her?” John asks.

Sherlock fidgets slightly. He worries that it might be strange to bring her up, but he has to know. “She touched me. My hand. And it felt different from the way other people have touched me. I didn’t want to sleep with her, but it did feel different and I don’t know why. I already tested to see if it had something to do with gender, but the results showed that wasn’t the case,” he says, frustrated. “And when you touch me it’s like that, only more. Much more.”

John is smiling at him. “I think it felt differently because she touched you differently. Because you meant something to her.”

Sherlock frowns slightly. “But why does it make it feel different?”

“Because when someone feels something for you, they touch you like they never want to let you go.” John’s hand sweeps across his cheek and Sherlock automatically leans into the touch. “Let me show you.”

John leans in and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s softly. His thumb trails across his cheek before settling on his neck. The touch is gentle and caring. John presses closer, deepening the kiss, his other hand curling around Sherlock’s side. He notices the way John’s hands linger in each spot, not wanting to move on. Eventually John stands, pulling Sherlock up with him. He connects their lips again instantly and slowly begins to move them towards Sherlock’s bedroom. They’ve not gone this far yet but Sherlock isn’t nervous. It’s John. Sex won’t change anything, except perhaps making everything better.

John lowers him slowly down on the bed, his kisses peppering from his lips, to his jaw, to his neck, all light and gentle. He pulls back, hand slowly but deliberately tracing across Sherlock’s cheek, the outline of his jaw, so lightly and with such purpose that Sherlock’s heart begins to race. John’s smile is loving as his hand follows the curve of Sherlock’s neck. He pauses deliberately before slowly, oh, _so_ slowly, undoing the first button of Sherlock’s shirt.

John takes his time undressing him, exploring always with the lightest of touches until Sherlock is breathless and a bit lightheaded. And Sherlock isn’t a virgin but he certainly _feels_ like one, shuddering as John’s deft fingers practically flutter over his cock.

John undresses himself with less care and Sherlock wants to help, wants to touch the way John does but he doesn’t know how. John will teach him. But not now because they’re kissing and John’s hands are everywhere, and all Sherlock can do is cling to him as there are new sensations and heat and _John_ , overwhelming him, until his brain goes offline in a way it never has before.

John’s hands are on his cheeks, his chest, skimming his hip, stroking his cock, and Sherlock is sure with the utmost certainty that he’ll never gain control of himself again. Then John’s cock is against his own and there are touches and lips and words that John is uttering but Sherlock can’t keep track of them now. Instead he pulls John in for another heated kiss.

Soon John’s fingers are caressing somewhere else and it hurts, but not badly, and John’s other hand is moving across his cock confidently, stroking and twisting until suddenly both hands are gone and there’s just John, pushing in. Asking if he’s okay. “Yes,” is Sherlock’s breathless reply and he is briefly proud that he didn’t start sprouting sentiment then concerned because he has so much of it running through his head. But then John is moving and his thoughts dash away again.

Sherlock is speaking words with no meaning, just, “more,” and, “please,” and, “John.” John shifts forward until he can reach Sherlock’s hand, interlacing their fingers as he moves. Soon he finds his mark and Sherlock loses track of John’s touch for a while, until his fingers are stroking Sherlock’s cock in time with his thrusts. It doesn’t take long after that and soon after both men are sprawled, exhausted, across the bed. Sherlock sleepily turns towards John who tugs him close, fingers curling through Sherlock’s damp hair.

“Do you understand?” John asks him quietly. Sherlock nods. “I don’t have to worry about you experimenting with this then?”

“Certainly not,” Sherlock says against John’s skin. “I think you’ve explained this concept of touch very clearly.”

John simply smiles and tugs him a bit closer. Sex does not alarm Sherlock. Sherlock is not a virgin. But Sherlock has never had sex like he’s just had with John. No one has ever touched him quite like John has. And Sherlock can only hope that his own touch conveys how important John is to him. He sees now that caring, honestly, really is an advantage after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday fic for the amazing Dlvvanzor. She is a wonderful friend and a fantastic Sherlock. Based on a prompt from her asking for "Sherlock suffering from a sexuality crisis because of Irene."


End file.
